Metathesis
by gryffindormischief
Summary: Harry has learned most things in life change for better or worse. But the most important ones stay the same.


A/N: Surprise! hope you like. flirty sultry time but still a T

* * *

There's nothing quite like getting promoted to send your brain into hyper drive. For Harry, it was mainly lots of considering new responsibilities, changes to the training regimen for new recruits, and surprised excitement that he'll have a more regular schedule.

When he gets home, Ginny's already got James off to bed and shares his eagerness to celebrate in a private wife-and-husband type manner. They manage it, twice even - and James sleeps through it all - so Harry's happy and well rested when he arrives at the Ministry the next morning and with a spring in his step no less.

Robards has already moved offices to facilitate his more administrative role - which sounds like a shitefest of beaurocracy that gives Harry heartburn - so things feel oddly empty when he arrives.

The night shift has already swapped so the Auror office is filled with groggy but not overtired masses except for Johnson, he's perpetually molasses-like in his energy levels. Generally, when Harry enters there's a groan of acknowledgement and the occasional wave, but today it's a bit more demonstrative.

Murphy straightens abruptly and tosses a discarded bit of parchment at Smitty and so on, so forth until everyone's staring at him expectantly. Frantz pats her bun and smiles. "Morning Director Potter."

_Oh_.

Harry's undecided whether he enjoys the bit of weight or if it's an awkward tick in the Cons portion of his list so he wanders toward his cubicle. Only to recall he's been relocated.

Better even. Now he has a door to block the stares. He can angst to his heart's content, as Ginny has so termed his _introspective_ nature.

Really though, the stares are a bit too much, so Harry pauses with his hand on the doorknob and calls out over his shoulder, "Get it together, eh? Before Murphy ends up in Mungo's with an interdepartmental memo in his larynx."

A chuckle runs through the bullpen and things are a bit lighter when he pulls the door shut behind him.

The walls are bare, bookshelves only bearing a few basics tomes, and the desk has a few broken quills littered across the top. It might be childish, but Harry doesn't feel himself calm until he drops his satchel and strides over to the fireplace.

Ginny appears not long after he calls out for her, James clapping gleefully in her lap.

"Already looking for round three? How _naughty_, Director Potter."

And while another bout with Ginny does not sound bad at all, given her awareness of the child in her lap and his bullpen full of...adult children with wands Harry knows she's simply allowing him the moment he needs to gather his thoughts.

It used to scare him that she knew him so well, so easily, but just about a decade in, Harry's found she's more than he could've ever dreamed. God, he only hopes she's half as happy as he is most days.

"I just wanted to see something familiar."

"_And_ breathtaking," Ginny teases, "You'll do great Potter."

"Thanks Weasel," Harry says with a wink.

As usual, she pretends to hate the nickname but her grin's as stubborn as she is. "Go on, rally the troops and such. You did alright with a bunch of mangy Hogwarts students."

"Only Ron was mangy."

James claps again and sticks a hand in his gummy mouth. "Better watch how much you say around him, Weasleys talk early."

"He's barely seven months."

"_Early_."

They stay quiet like that, and Harry would feel silly for the goofy smile on his face if he weren't so undeniably, purely happy.

After a minute, James seems to lose patience with the whole meaningful family moment thing and launches himself sideways from Ginny's lap and nearly rolls himself into the fireplace. Grimacing as she grabs their toddling son? Ginny muses, "Maybe we were a bit cavalier about mixing our gene pools."

"Couldn't resist if I tried," Harry says with a wink, earning himself an ever rare blush from Ginny Weasley-Potter.

"Off you go, sexy Auror man," she answers, waving him off, "We love you."

And after a final goodbye, Harry disconnects the call and turns to take in his office. "Off I go."

* * *

Two weeks in and things are going fairly well. Nobody's died or lost limbs, visits to Mungo's are plateaued with Robards' numbers, and overall he's feeling pretty secure. _Professionally_.

_Personally_ he hasn't had dinner at home for eleven days and James may be beginning to think his dad lives in the fireplace.

Plus, and this may sound shallow but it's still true, Harry and Ginny haven't had alone time since the morning of his first day.

They've gone through this type of spell before. Too busy, ill, or on separate continents. Any number of explanations really. But this new version of deprivation is torture.

He generally arrives home too late for James's bedtime and he and Ginny are so beat it's a small miracle if they manage to get a cuddle in on the sofa while he picks at his dinner leftovers.

So she's there, he's there, but they aren't there.

Ginny hasn't mentioned it, and he knows she's got more than enough on her mind getting prepped for her return to the Harpies for the new season.

It really just feels a bit selfish to come home, prop up his feet and open with 'so how about a nice shag?'

Harry _has_ however taken to allowing himself some rather vivid daydreams when alone in his office and facing down a mountain of paperwork.

_More regular hours my arse._

He's just wrapping up one of the aforementioned paperwork Everests when he thinks he's really reached his peak in terms of self delusion and daydreams. Because it _really_ looks like sweaty Ginny has just flooed into his office with her top half zipped and her face flushed and her lips parted -

_Damn he's in bad shape._

He clears his throat.

"Gin."

She smiles, almost feral.

"Director."

Bloody hell it's hot in here.

When he doesn't drum up a response beyond what _must_ be an audible gulp, Ginny saunters closer. "I realized a few things during our bleacher run at the stadium."

Harry hums. "Er- like?"

"First, you work too much."

Hell's bells she's pulling the zipper.

"Second," her finger finds his bobbing Adam's apple, "We haven't shagged in quite some time."

He nods. "And uh- is that all?"

Ginny's grin widens and she licks her lips slow and torturously. "Nope. Third and final thing of note - we haven't properly christened your new _private_ office."

At this point, Harry can _feel_ his blood thrumming through his veins and Ginny's eyes are dilated and dark and if they don't get their hands on each other he'll probably just explode. Right here. In the middle of the night. At the ministry. Dead.

So it's really a service to himself, his wife, the community - mankind in general - when he grabs her waist and pulls her to him.

And when he moans into her mouth as her tongue does delicious things to him it's quite unselfish.

But when he shoves the paperwork from his desk like some kind of arsehole in those sultry romance novels Hermione shares with Ginny (who then shares them with Harry for pointers) it's all for him. For them really.

She hops up onto the surface without assistance and her hands immediately work the buttons of his shirt free. He'd discarded his thick woolen overcoat long ago and he's never been more glad to have so few layers between him and the air.

She's just begun tipping backward onto the desktop and slipped her hands into the back of his trousers when the door slams open and Harry finds himself swearing worse than the time Fitz nearly blasted off his arsecheek in training.

Ginny's top is at least _partially_ zipped but Harry's definitely not in a condition to receive company and why the bloody hell did he not lock the damn door.

He's stood up now but hasn't drummed up the courage to actually turn and face the interloper when a voice, gruff and slightly embarrassed and entirely too close to laughter sounds. "Glad to see you're not finding it hard to make yourself at home."

"Hell Robards, a knock might be nice?" Ginny growls, peering over Harry's shoulder.

"So's a lock, eh Mrs Potter?"

Harry groans. "I know you're probably paralyzed by the sight of my gorgeous arse but is there any chance you'll be leaving soon?"

Ginny laughs into his chest and Robards harrumphs. "Well I just heard you're burning the midnight oil every night. Wanted to knock some sense into you. Though it seems maybe you're just using the office for some after hours ahem family time."

"Good_night_ Robards."

"For some of us it would seem."

"Does being the Director's wife give me a license to kill?"

"Night, Potters," the door begins creaking closed before Robards pauses, "_Locks_."

As soon as the door shuts, they descend into embarrassed laughter that soon goes to full on guffaws complete with tearing eyes. His sides ache with it and Ginny can't seem to calm any better.

Eventually they do catch their breaths, Harry still pressed between Ginny's legs though her palms have disappointingly stopped cupping his arse.

Her cheeks are rosy with laughter now and her hair is no longer damp, but she's still the same beautiful Ginny he fell in love with ages before he could even put a name to it. And she still drives him crazy with cheeky retorts and tempting looks and no nonsense advice.

But most of all she's still his favorite person to wake up to, to fall asleep to, and everything in between.

It's all really quite poetic, his thoughts on the matter of him and Ginny, considering the happenings of the last handful of minutes. So he's a bit surprised when she glances up at him with that mischievous look as her fingers stray to her zipper once again.

"Would you hate me if I," the zipper slips lower, "Asked you to hit that lock?"

"You- "

"Two weeks is too long and I know," she gives him a not so subtle once over, "For a fact you feel the same."


End file.
